Camila sat on the edge of the hotel bed, her fingers toying with the chain around her neck—gold, delicate, and old. A gift from Damian years ago. She still wore it, even after all this time. Even after everything.
The curtains were half-drawn, letting in slanted morning light that kissed her bare shoulders. Her long, dark hair was still damp from the shower. She looked calm. Serene, even.
But her eyes—those sharp, unforgiving eyes—told a different story.
The phone beside her buzzed once.
She didn’t rush to answer it.
She let it ring.
Then, slowly, she picked it up and placed it against her ear.
“Speak,” she said.
A low voice came through the other end. “He left about an hour ago. Headed back to the mansion. I think he’s trying to keep the girl away from trouble.”
Camila smirked.
